


Sherlollipops - Cast Me Gently Into Morning

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Songfic, pre-sherlolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man about to go into voluntary exile after faking his suicide, the one who mattered most, and an MP3 player. Songfic set post Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Cast Me Gently Into Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Another plot bunny bit me on the ankle and wouldn’t let go, so here it is. Completely non-Season 3 compliant since I wrote it before then and am just getting around to posting it here on AO3. Songs and lyrics mentioned below belong to their writers and singers, just as the characters belong to Moftiss and BBC and not me, dammit. :( Dedicated to navybabe on ff.net for inspiring this songfic.

Sherlock had left the Tube and was walking up the stairs to the street before he found the gift Molly had somehow slipped into his jacket pocket without him noticing.

His eyebrows rose as he reached in for his cigarettes – he’d started smoking again after a week of hiding in Molly’s flat nearly drove him mad with boredom – and found instead a small MP3 player.

When had she…ah, of course. When she’d hugged him good-bye. He’d allowed the sentimental gesture, knowing it would make her feel better – and unwilling to admit that it did the same for him. He was off to take down the late, unlamented Jim Moriarty’s criminal network, had hidden out in Molly’s flat for two weeks after she helped him fake his suicide, and the hug had been…Well. He’d frankly enjoyed it, enjoyed the feel of her arms around him, and the soft touch of her lips when she’d pressed them to his cheek. He could even feel the warmth of her breath against his ear when she’d quietly urged him to be careful, to come back to them as soon as possible.

The catch in her voice had betrayed how close she’d been to tears, and he’d chosen that moment to slip out of her embrace and exit the flat, wearing his new clothes – denim jeans, worn and torn, workman’s boots, a ratty t-shirt and hoodie – and sporting a hairstyle that completed the look. Molly had assured him that the ginger hair color suited him, and very nearly matched the scruffy, scraggly facial hair he’d allowed to grow in. It had always struck him as odd how light his body hair was in comparison to his naturally dark curls, but it had certainly come in handy since no one had ever seen him like this except his brother Mycroft – and that had been years ago, when Sherlock had been home on break from uni and decided to try and grow a beard.

That experiment had been nipped in the bud once he realized how ridiculous he looked, and not just because of the lighter hair color. It made him look like the junkie he’d narrowly avoided turning into when his experimentation with drugs had nearly led him over the cliff into true addiction.

Now, however, that look was exactly the one he was cultivating: harmless street person, junkie on the make, a low-level hustler. That persona would lead him to contacts within Moriarty’s organization and from there he would progress.

That was the plan. It was not the plan, however, for Molly to have stolen his cigarettes and replaced them with…what, a mishmash of popular music? Her taste and his did not even come close to coinciding, with the single exception of her appreciation for Mozart.

He should toss it away, but for some reason his fingers refused to let go of it. Instead, he found himself putting the earbuds in place as he reached his first destination, the hideout he’d prepared for himself while Molly was busy with the preparations he’d asked of her the night before his jump from the roof of St. Bart’s.

At least he’d had the forethought to leave a carton of cigarettes there among the other things he’d be needing. Like a laptop, changes of clothing, the materials for future disguises, and of course packets of crisps.

He should busy himself with all of that, but no. He turned on the MP3 player, opening up the first file, the one that said “Me First.”

He felt a grin tugging at his lips. Typical Molly, so forthright. Some might call her choice of titles unimaginative, but not him. She knew he loathed coyness and would appreciate her straightforwardness.

It was her voice that filled his ears, instructing him that, if this gift would in any way endanger him or give something away, that of course she would understand if he binned it or burned it. But if he thought it was safe to keep, she hoped he enjoyed what she’d posted on it. Then she’d read out what was clearly a printed list of the playlist she’d prepared for him: Works of Mozart and Chopin, a few other composers he’d mentioned enjoying on the few occasions they’d discussed music (and not ended up in a row about whose taste was better); several scientific audiobooks and lectures she thought he would enjoy; herself dictating several autopsy reports that he hadn’t been involved in, in case he got bored and needed a puzzle to occupy his mind – and two other files she listed only as “Personal and Confidential.”

Curious, he flicked to the first of the two, which she’d labeled only with the date – 10 October 2011. Before opening it, he searched his Mind Palace for any pertinent data regarding that date... and smiled disbelievingly before giving it a brief listen.

Yes. It was, indeed, John Watson’s voice he heard. He’d gone to some boring medical conference in Dublin, presenting a paper on field medicine under combat conditions. Sherlock had listened to it once and been impressed, although he’d been sure to act disinterested when John asked him about it. He would have to be sure to apologize for that bit of tomfoolery once he returned to the life he’d so recently been forced to abandon, he mused to himself, blinking rapidly and refusing to identify the reason for said blinking. 

Because, of course, Sherlock Holmes did not get emotional.

He shut off the lecture, saving it for later, and went on to the second item Molly had listed as “Personal and Confidential.” It, too, bore a simple label, this time a one-word title: “Answer.”

It was a song, by a woman singer he couldn’t identify beyond the fact that she was Canadian and had been in her early 30s when she’d recorded it, possibly after the birth of her first child. He would look her up later and find that it was Sarah McLachlan, and that the song was from her album _Afterglow_ , recorded in 2003. He would also discover that she was one of Molly’s favorite singers and that the disk held pride of place on the top of her small stack of CDs.

But that was after. For now, all he understood was that this song was telling him what Molly herself couldn’t bring herself to say to him. All her feelings, her concerns about his well-being – and his possible concerns for her ability to do everything he’d asked of her – were in the lyrics.

_I will be the answer at the end of the line_  
I will be there for you while you take the time  
In the burning of uncertainty I will be your solid ground  
I will hold the balance if you can’t look down 

_If it takes my whole life I won’t break I won’t bend_  
It’ll all be worth it, worth it in the end  
‘Cause I can only tell you what I know  
That I need you in my life  
When the stars have all gone out  
you’ll still be burning so bright 

_Cast me gently into morning_  
for the night has been unkind  
Take me to a place so holy  
That I can wash this from my mind  
The memory of choosing not to fight 

_If it takes a whole life I won’t break I won’t bend_  
It’ll all be worth it, worth it in the end  
‘Cause I can only tell you what I know  
That I need you in my life  
When the stars have all burned out  
you’ll still be burning so bright  
Cast me gently into morning for the night has been unkind… 

When the song ended, he pulled the earbuds out and carefully shut off the MP3 player before returning it to his jacket pocket. There was a smile lurking on his lips as he finally turned to the tasks he should have started the moment he arrived, and the song ran through his head as a sort of background accompaniment to his thoughts while he methodically began the research he needed to do in order to ensure that his new persona would make the right impression on the right people.

Molly knew him so well. And now he felt he knew her far, far better than he had before.

She would never, he vowed silently to himself before fully immersing himself in the task at hand, have reason to doubt her importance to him ever again.

oOo

Three months after Sherlock left her flat to take down Jim Moriarty’s criminal empire, Molly Hooper received a package in the mail. There was no return address, but as soon as she opened it, she knew who it was from.

The package contained only two things: a small MP3 player, similar to the one she’d gifted Sherlock with when he’d left, and a note bearing only two words.

_Track Three._

She dug out her earbuds, attached them to the MP3 player and put them in her ears, pressing the button to start Track Three.

As she listened, tears rolled down her cheeks although a smile tugged her lips upward.

It was a song, just one song, but it spoke volumes, told her so much: that her gift had been received and appreciated, that she truly did count…and that Sherlock Holmes was not as heartless as either he or so many others believed.

After the song ended, she replayed it again and again, drinking in the message he’d sent her, the familiar strains singing through her heart in a way they never had before.

The Mamas and the Papas had always been her father’s favorite group, and this song had already been special to her because of him…and now it meant even more to her as she sang along, her voice a low, quavering whisper, tears still rolling down her cheeks. Tears of happiness.

_Each night before you go to bed, my baby,_  
Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby,  
And tell all the stars above.  
This is dedicated to the one I love… 


End file.
